I dropped to the floor-grid, and his blade went over me. And as I dropped, I struck with an upward thrust. My knife met solidity; sank into flesh.
I twisted past him on the floor as he fell. My knife was gone: buried in him.
Words were audible; choking gasps. I could see his form rising, staggering. The open porte was near him; he swayed through it.
Did he know he was mortally wounded? I think so. He swayed on the wing runway, and I slid to the door and stood watching. And was aware of the shadow of Jetta creeping to join me.
"Is he—?"
"Quiet, Jetta."
He stood under the wing, swaying, gripping a stay. Then his voice sounded, and it seemed like a laugh.
"The craven American—wins." He moved a step. "Not to see—me die—"
He toppled at the rail. "Good-by, Jetta."
A great huddled shadow. A blob, toppling, falling....